A Hundred Thousand Dynes
by Bicoastal
Summary: Just when you think you've seen it all... BLH


**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. All others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box"**

It's his turn to cook tonight, and as I pull up in front of Jim's house I'm thankful for it. I'm tired. Most of my delight in this relationship comes from Jim himself--his heart, his humor, his sexiness--but there's a small part of me that is just pleased that I no longer have to fix dinner for myself every morning without fail.

Another, larger part is pleased that I no longer have to eat alone.

He's in the kitchen when I let myself in, looking adorable with his sleeves rolled up and a dishtowel tied around his waist in lieu of an apron. I walk over to give him a kiss; he's stir-frying, and can't leave the wok, but the man's an expert and I come away properly kissed for all his hands are otherwise occupied.

"There's a glass of wine on the counter for you," he says. "How was your day?"

There's only one word for it. "Fruitful," I say, picking up the glass, and then I put it back down again as I start laughing.

Jim looks over to see what's got me so amused, but the more I try to stop and explain, the more I laugh. Finally I sink down into a kitchen chair and try to get myself under control.

"You all right there?" Jim asks mildly. "Need some water?"

"No, no." I wipe my eyes, letting out a last giggle and reaching over for my glass. A sip helps settle me a little. "I'm sorry. It's just--" And I try to figure out where to begin.

First of all, while I admit to having seen many strange things in my line of work, I don't talk about most of them, even to Jim. Clients' visits to my Dominion are private things, and my business depends on the utmost in discretion. Jim knows how the place operates, and who works there, but I don't tell tales and he doesn't ask. Powerful people pass through my doorway, it's true, but all of my clients receive the same privacy. An unfulfilled housewife is due just as much respect as a jaded casino owner.

And no, I'm not saying which casino owner.

Second, while much of what goes on in my Dominion might seem amusing or disgusting to an outside observer, it isn't trivial. It is people expressing their needs and desires in the way that suits them best, and in doing so, they often discover new things about themselves, or come to terms with the way they are. Modern society complicates and distorts sexuality and the expression of it. My business provides a safe and private outlet for such expression, an outlet that many of my clients might not find anywhere else.

I see through the costumes, the rituals, the posturings to the minds and souls beneath. The grotesqueness, the silliness, tends to recede, showing instead the vulnerable human beings.

That said, on occasion something still strikes my funnybone.

"I had a new client today," I finally say. "His desires were a little…unusual."

Jim looks down at the wok, stirring the contents a little. "Do I want to hear this?" he says casually, and I know he's only half-teasing. My captain's an open-minded man, but there are some things he prefers to leave uncovered.

"It's nothing outrageous, just…strange," I assure him. "The client asked for the girl with the best pitching arm."

His brows go up at that. "Pitching arm? That's a new one."

"Actually, it is," I agree. "And most of my girls can't throw worth much. Anyway, his scenario was to be tied to a post, and have her…" And the giggles take me again. "Have her…"

Jim regards me a moment, and then shuts off the burner and covers the wok before taking a seat next to me and folding his hands patiently on the tabletop. "Yes?"

The gleam in his eye betrays his interrogation-room posture, and I can only laugh harder. He waits.

I'm gasping for breath by the time I calm again. My stomach muscles hurt, but it's a good thing--there's really nothing like laughter to improve one's mood. "Have her throw figs at him," I manage at last. "Overripe ones, by preference."

Jim lets out a surprised chuckle. "Where did you find the figs?"

I shrug. "I have a contact in the Bellagio's kitchens. They tend to have a little of everything there, and Pauline was able to make every shot count."

This time he laughs out loud. "Pauline? Your second-in-command? The one who looks like that girl from the _Liberator_ all grown up?"

"The very same." I'm grinning at the memory. "She helps her twins practice for Little League, so she gets a lot of pitching time in."

He shakes his head. "So this put you in hysterics--"

"Oh, not in front of him!" I put on my Lady Heather face for a moment, donning assurance and cool sensuality as a garment. "It wasn't until I saw the expression on Pauline's face when she started pitching--" My voice squeaks a little, but I get it back under control. "I walked slowly back to my office, shut my door, and…"

"Fell down laughing," Jim finishes, still smiling.

"Almost." I'd had to muffle it in a pillow, as my office isn't soundproof.

"Pauline thought it was funny too?"

"Oh no, she was enjoying herself. That's what made it so amusing." It takes a lot to get a true reaction out of Pauline, and it's not something I see often. Which is why she's so good at her job. "She came in later, with juice all over her hands, and commented that it was something she'd gladly do for free."

Jim laughs again. "I don't think I want to know why she feels that way."

I just smile. I DO know, but that's between Pauline and I.

"Lucky for you it was something relatively easy to find," he continues. "What if he'd wanted cassava?"

"Or artichokes?" I retort. "Poor Pauline would have had to wear gloves."

His eyes crinkle as his grin widens. "Bowling watermelons."

I'm laughing again. "Rapid-fire grapes…"

"Frozen peas…"

"Pomegranates--all that juice--"

"Just think of his a-pear-ance," he puns.

"James Brass!"

"What, not a-peeling enough?"

I lean over to swat him, and he catches my wrist and pulls me onto his lap. I yelp, a little surprised, and he murmurs into my ear. "C'mere, Peaches…"

"You're a fruitcake," I tell him, but I'm smiling as I say it.

**End.**


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